The Black Rood (45 page)

“Stay here and keep the fire going,” I instructed Wazim. Taking up the torch, I hurried on.

The second room contained earthenware jars filled with perfumed oil, and in the third rolls and bundles of cloth of gold, and silver, and multicolored, richly patterned Damascus cloth. I looked in three more—each with similar items, but there was nothing I recognized as having come from Amir Ghazi's hoard.

As I rushed on to the next rooms, a great crash sounded from the main gallery. The sound seemed to fill the treasure house, resounding and echoing through the underground corridors. This mighty clash was followed by a long silence, after which the pounding of the axes resumed in earnest.

I quickly completed the search of the last three rooms—one was little more than a narrow alcove and contained nothing but a few pottery jars and, high up on the end wall, a large, square vent covered by a partially open ironwork grate. The other two rooms were each filled with items of
ceremonial armor: stacks of painted wooden shields, bundles of tasseled halberds, sheaves of curved swords standing upright in wooden barrels, helmets ranged around the walls and floor in ranks. Upon examining the last room, I dashed across and started in on the opposite side of the gallery.

Feeling the grip of desperation tightening around me, I prayed, “Great King, if you care about the honor of your name, help me to restore it now.”

In truth, I do not know what I meant by this; the words came to me and I spoke them out. The reply was immediate—if from an unexpected source.

“Da'ounk!” Wazim Kadi shouted behind me. I turned to see the little Saracen standing beside the pillar, the fire at its base burning brightly in the gloom of the gallery. He was pointing across to a chamber on the other side of the entrance. “Look!”

I glanced where he indicated and saw the glow of a torch as it passed from view into the chamber.

“Did you see who it was?” I called, already running for the doorway.

“It was a father,” he replied.

At least, that is what I thought he said; it did not make sense to me, but there was no time to ask questions. I sped to the chamber and looked in. It was a large room with several columns forming aisles, between several of the columns someone had heaped up mounds of objects. There was no sign of the torch-bearing man Wazim had seen. Was it a trick of the light? Had we imagined it? Then I saw the gold-trimmed box containing Bohemond's head, and all questions vanished. Having carried that grotesque trophy all the way from Kadiriq to Damascus, I would have recognized its gleaming tracery and metal-bound edges in my sleep.

I started for the heap, just as another tremendous crash resounded from the main gallery—this one accompanied by a slow, creaking, cracking sound and a second clatter. I guessed part of the door had given way. It would not be long before the Templars and their Fida'in allies gained entrance.

I dived into the mound and, tossing the torch to the floor, began pulling things from the heap and throwing them aside.
Many were objects I recognized, and this encouraged me greatly. But as the pile diminished, my hopes began to fade.

There came another enormous, walloping crash, followed by a long, groaning crack as another portion of the ironclad door gave way. An instant later, the low-burning torch gave a last sputtering spurt and sizzled out. I raced back to the doorway, and called for Wazim to bring a piece of wood from the fire.

“They are getting very close now,” he said, handing the burning brand to me.

“So are we,” I replied. “The relic is in this room somewhere.”

There came another tremendous crack on the door. I could hear the timber splintering as sections were ripped away.

“What would you have me do, Da'ounk?”

“Pray, Wazim.”

To my surprise the little jailer folded his hands, closed his eyes, and began chanting then and there. Leaving him to his prayers, I took the burning chunk of wood and, kneeling beside the casket containing Prince Bohemond's head, I unfastened the clasp and opened it.

The flickering light playing over the embalmed prince's frozen features made it seem as if he was trying to awaken from his serene and perpetual sleep. “May God forgive me for what I am about to do,” I said, and touched the burning wood to the prince's stiff hair.

The resulting flame was much brighter and larger than I expected; due to the pitch resin in the embalming mixture, the waxen flesh burned readily. I watched for a moment as the flames licked across the contours of his face, singeing off eyelashes and brows, and painting his becalmed expression with a liquid glaze of shimmering flame. Satisfied that the flame would not go out, I picked up the box and carried it quickly along the colonnade to the next mound of plunder. There, by the light of Bohemond's flaming head, I began pawing through the trove—this time to Wazim's rapidly muttered prayers, which he interrupted long enough to urge me to hurry faster.

Two more booming crashes trembled the walls of the
treasure house before I reached the bottom of the heap, only to come up empty-handed. My frustration was eased by the thought that there was only one mound left and the rood must be there.

The casket containing the burning head was on fire now and too hot to pick up, so I shoved it with my foot to the next hoarded heap and waded in, scattering valuable objects right and left.

Crack! The door in the main gallery splintered and groaned.

“Hurry!” shouted Wazim. He was standing at the chamber doorway. “They have made a hole in the door. I can see them now.”

“Over here!” I called. “It has to be in this heap somewhere. Help me find it.”

Wazim hastened to my side and together we plowed into the mound of objects. Heedless, I strewed costly objects everywhere; I tossed aside jeweled daggers, carelessly threw away a fine bow and quiver of golden arrows, and sent silver bowls and chalices clattering across the floor. And then, I found it: the rug in which I had wrapped the holy relic. I fell upon it at once and pulled it to me.

Even as my hand closed on the rolled rug, however, I knew my hope was disappointed. The roll was empty. The Black Rood was gone. Beneath the rug, I saw one of the gem-encrusted, gold bands that had capped the ends of the piece; the other gold band lay beside it, mangled and flattened by the bearer's clumsy feet. My poor heart rending with dismay, I stooped and retrieved the flattened band. There, in the dying light of Bohemond's burning skull, tears welled up in my eyes as my failure overwhelmed me.

All that time I had spent in captivity, nursing the hope, however tenuous, that I might rescue the sacred relic. But the Black Rood was gone.

“Da'ounk?” said Wazim. “What is wrong?”

“It is gone,” I replied, letting the gold bands slip from my hands. “We are finished.”

From the main gallery there came a final thunderous crash and the sound of splintered timber careening across the
floor. A cheer went up from the soldiers on the other side. With that, the last of the flames gave out; the box broke into embers and the skull rolled onto the floor, empty eye sockets staring at me, lipless mouth grinning in grim mockery. The burned bone glowed red for a moment, and then that, too, disappeared in the darkness.

Wazim called me again. I made no reply.

There was nothing to say. The soldiers would be on us at any moment, and that would be the end of it.

I heard Wazim moving in the darkness, and felt a touch on my arm. I thought he meant to move me along. “I am sorry, Wazim,” I said. “It was all for nothing.”

Out in the main gallery, the last remnant of the door gave way and, with shouts of triumph, the Templars stormed into the treasure house.

I
STOOD IN THE
darkness, listening to the whoops and shouts of the Templars and Fida'in resounding through the main gallery and echoing in the chambers and passages, as the light from their torches flickered dimly on the walls—a phantom army swarming up from the netherworld to plunder the caliph's treasure.

And they would have it, too. There was no one to stop them.
Templars and Fida'in together
, I thought.
On what unholy day had that alliance been forged
?

I listened to the sounds of their hurried footsteps as they raced to the plunder…a race I had hoped to win.

I had failed—a truth made more brutal for the fact that I had allowed myself to believe that God was with me, leading me each step of the way, that my trials had been for a purpose, that my suffering had meaning.

But it was all a lie. I knew it now, and the knowledge made my heart writhe like a snake in hot ashes. I could have wept for the futility of it, if not for the knot of hard, hot anger coiling in my gut.

Wazim whispered my name again, gently pulling me from my miserable reverie. “Look!” he said in a voice half-stifled with awe. “The holy father is here!”

I turned my head toward the sound of his voice and saw a faint glimmer of golden light reflecting on the surface of one of the stone pillars behind us. It vanished again before I
could determine the source. Nevertheless, I moved toward the place and discovered that the pillar stood before the alcove I had examined a few moments ago. The light appeared to emanate from within this narrow, cryptlike room.

Stepping quickly to the low entrance, I saw a man dressed all in white holding a torch in his left hand. His robe was that of a cleric—a priest of an Eastern order, so I thought—and his bearing both lordly and humble, that of a venerated patriarch. I understood at once why Wazim had called him a holy father. Yet, in face and form he was youthful still, his beard and hair black, the glance of his dark eyes keen.

He beckoned me to him, but astonished as I was, I made no move to join him. For, although he held a torch, it was not the torch which shed the light, it was the whole of his being.

Raising his hand, he beckoned me again, more insistently, and said, “Come quickly, Duncan, time grows short.”

At the sound of my name, I edged forward a step or two. “Who are you, lord, that you know me?”

“Duncan,” he said in a tone of gentle reproof. “Does not the master know his servants? How should I forget one who has served me so well?”

“The White Priest,” I whispered. Wazim Kadi sank to his knees beside me, bowed his head and shut his eyes tight.

“Call me Brother Andrew,” he replied lightly. “As I once asked your father, so I now ask you: what do you want?”

It seemed a strange question—with soldiers clattering through the main gallery behind us, rushing eagerly to the plunder, what difference did it make what I wanted? Strange, too, his question instantly brought to mind the cool clean breeze of the northern Scottish coast, and I saw the dark waves driven white upon the hard rock shingle of Caithness bay, and standing on the high headland gazing out to sea, two figures: one tall and gaunt, one small, cherubic, her long hair blowing in the wind—Murdo, my father, with little Caitríona by his side—and they were searching the wide, wave-worried sea.

At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be sailing into that bay, and to hold those people in my arms. “I want to go home,” I murmured, feeling the tears rising to my eyes.

“So did your father,” replied the White Priest, “but he was proud and would not admit it.”

“Perhaps he was made of sterner stuff than his unfortunate son.”

“Why unfortunate?” asked the mysterious monk. “You have the Holy Light to guide your steps along the True Path. Murdo paid dearly to learn what you already know.”

There came a shout at the door of the chamber behind us. Wazim, on his knees beside me, clasping his hands and muttering fervent prayers, jumped to his feet, turned and ran to the alcove entrance.

“I know nothing,” I said, feeling my failure afresh. “And unless you help us, I will not live to see another morning in this land.”

“O, man of little faith. I will tell you what I told your father the first time we met.”

“What is that?”

“Take heart. You are closer than you know.”

At that moment, Wazim called from the doorway. “Da'ounk!” he whispered urgently. “They are coming this way!”

I glanced toward Wazim as he spoke, and as I did so the light in the alcove began to fade. “What if—” I said, turning once more toward the White Priest. He was gone, leaving only a gently fading glow where he had been standing. But in that shimmering light, I saw that he was right.

“What are we going to do?” Wazim rasped in desperation. “They are almost here!”

“Peace, Wazim,” I whispered. “Come away from there.” Taking his arm, I pulled him away from the alcove entrance. “Brother Andrew has led us to the treasure.”

He glanced around the near-empty room, and then turned frightened eyes on me. “Where?” he asked.

“There,” I told him, pointing to the vent shaft where an old length of timber was propping open the iron grate. “He has also shown us our way out.”

As darkness closed around us, I reached up and caught the edge of the shaft opening. I jumped, and Wazim took hold of my legs and boosted me up into the opening, whereupon I
scrambled into the shaft. Once inside, I reached down and pulled Wazim up after me. Then, carefully, reverently, I took hold of the short wooden beam and, with Wazim's help, gently eased the heavy iron grate shut. It closed with a dull clank, as two Templars entered the chamber behind us.

They searched the room, sweeping the corners with torchlight and, finding nothing, swiftly moved on. I allowed myself a low sigh of relief, and sat back a moment to catch my breath and reflect on how best to make our retreat. “Now we go,” I whispered to Wazim.

“What about the Holy Cross?” he asked.

“The search is over,” I told him. “Here—give me your hand.”

In the darkness, I found his hand and guided it to the scarred length of timber cradled in my arms. Like a blind man, his fingers traced the deep-grooved lines and ridges of the ancient wood, and tears formed in his eyes, and mine, as, each in our own way, we honored the sacred relic.

The voices of the Templars and Fida'in echoed in the chamber below, and my thoughts turned once again to escape. Of the few courses open to me, I determined that the vent shaft offered the best chance of evading discovery and capture. The ascent was steep, but not impossibly so. I soon found that I could crawl up the incline slowly on hands and knees, pushing the rood before me.

This I did, and a short time later Wazim and I had reached the secret passage above. Although it was as dark as the deepest cavern, I smelled the night-blooming flowers in the breeze from the vertical shaft and knew without a doubt where we were. Standing with my back to the shaft, the tunnel opened out to the right and left. The passage to the right led back to the cistern and the ash traps below the kitchens; the left-hand passage led to the underground canal.

The canal would take us to the river, thereby avoiding not only the palace and any lurking Templars or Fida'in, but also the overcrowded streets with their rioting throngs. This, I decided, was the way we would go.

Hefting the rood piece onto my shoulder, we started off—one blind man following the other. Wazim walked before me
with my bundle of rolled papyrus scrolls slung across his chest, and I followed, keeping my left hand outstretched, my fingertips brushing his back—more for comfort than need, since the passage led in only one direction, without divisions, branches, or turnings; there was no chance of becoming lost.

Thus, we made our way to the secret stream, stumbling now and then, but proceeding with good speed. The sacred relic was heavy and unwieldy, but after carrying Bohemond's head all that time, I had learned how to bear a burden without tiring myself unduly. And, after a time, I found I did not greatly mind the darkness; although I was blind as a stone, I knew the canal lay just ahead, and that there was a boat waiting to take us to the Nile, where at long last I would be reunited with Padraig and the others.

In a little while, the downward trend of the passage increased and we came to the first of the series of low steps—first one, and then two, and so on, until I could hear the ripple and splash of the stream ahead. We checked our pace, and continued with greater caution, arriving at the water's edge at last. Passing the rood to Wazim, I knelt down on the last step and felt along the edge of the wall for the ring to which the boat was tethered. After much fumbling, I found the ring and then set about untying the rope.

It was knotted tight and there was no loosening it. The braided cord, however, was old, and scuffing it against the brickwork of the passage it soon frayed to the place where, using all my strength, I was able to pull it apart.

Wrapping the end of the rope around my hand, I pulled the boat to the steps and instructed Wazim to lay the rood down on the path behind me, and get into the small craft. “I will steady it for you,” I told him. “When you are ready, I will hand you the rood.”

Slowly, and with exaggerated care, we settled Wazim in the boat, and I handed him the rood, telling him to hold it upright and clenched between his knees, keeping one hand on it at all times. Then it was my turn; I was able to get in without capsizing our vessel, and allowing the stream to turn us, I released my hold, pushing away as the bow came around.

The flow of water was not fast and the boat glided away slowly. It was strange, floating along in utter darkness. But for the gentle stirring of air on our faces, we might have been sitting completely still in the water. From time to time, I dipped my hand in the stream to test that we were indeed moving along with the flow. Once we bumped against the side of the canal—which startled both of us, and caused Wazim to cry out in alarm. I was able to push away without incident and from then on kept one hand out so as to fend off another collision.

Unfortunately, the damage was already done. The boat was old, the wood rotten, and the impact, though mild, had loosened part of the hull and caused a seam to open, allowing water to seep into the boat. The first I knew of it was when I felt my feet getting wet; I put down my hand and realized the bottom of the boat was awash.

“Stay very still,” I warned Wazim. “The leak is slight, and we may yet reach our destination before the hull fills with water.”

That was not to be, however. Soon water was sloshing over our ankles. Bailing was futile. Although I tried for a while, cupping my hands and flipping it out by the handful, I could not keep pace with the rising water. “Can you swim, Wazim?” I asked.

“No, master,” he replied, his voice taking on a quaver of concern.

I assured him that I could swim well enough for both of us and that there was nothing to worry about. I was still offering this assurance when the boat struck the canal wall again and the seam opened wider. I felt the water rising, and said, “Listen carefully, Wazim. I am going to get out of the boat and into the water. Stay just as you are, and do not move. I will hold to the side of the boat and all will be well.”

This was far too optimistic, however; the darkness complicated everything—even simple movements became maneuvers fraught with difficulty. In the end, I succeeded in sliding over the side without overturning our fragile craft. The water was not overly cold, and I reckoned that by re
moving my weight from the boat, we just might make it to the river before the vessel sank.

We struck the side two more times in quick succession, and the second bump spun the boat around. Despite being in the water, I was able to keep the vessel from overturning, and perhaps we would have made it to our destination intact if the current had not picked up markedly at the same time. I could not see what caused the stream to move more quickly, but thought it must be that the walls of the canal had narrowed.

And then, in the distance, I heard the rushing splash of falling water. Not wishing to alarm Wazim, I said, “I think it would be a good idea to join me now.”

“I am happy to remain in the boat, Da'ounk,” he replied, his voice trembling in the darkness.

“I think you may have no choice, Wazim. I want you to hand the rood to me first, and then ease over the side. We can hold to the rail. The boat will float a long time yet, even with water in it.”

I could feel the stream beginning to swirl around me as the current strengthened. The rushing sound grew louder. In the dark, it would be impossible to judge the severity of the drop, or even to know how far ahead it lay. I kept this to myself, however, as I did not wish to frighten Wazim the more. “Here,” I said, tapping the rail with my hand, “let me take the rood, and then I will help you over the side.”

Muttering in some incomprehensible tongue, he passed the holy relic to me, and then prepared to ease himself over the side. Gripping the side of the boat, he made to stand and at that moment I felt the bow veer sharply away; the boat struck the wall of the canal and poor anxious Wazim was thrown off balance. He gave out a terrified yelp and released my hand as he fell back into the boat.

I heard the dry crack of rotten wood. There was a shuddering splash and the fragile craft began to break apart. Grappling with chunks of wreckage, I shouted for Wazim and made for the sound of his thrashing and coughing.

All at once the water surged around me. I felt the floor
come up sharply beneath my feet, and floundered for a foothold. Chunks of stone scraped my knees and shins as I was dragged forward by the force of the water. I shouted for Wazim to keep his head up, and then felt a rising swell like that of the open sea as I was swept over the falls.

Holding tight to the rood, I plunged sideways and struck a jumble of stone blocks on the bottom of the streambed. I was tumbled along beneath the surface of the water, pummeled by pieces of wreckage as the ruined boat came sliding over the falls. The Black Rood slipped from my hands as I was rolled over again and again by the force of the water.